Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, April 11, 1882, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, April 11, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: March 15, 2018 [EBook #56741]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, APRIL 11, 1882 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| vol. iii.—no. 128. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, April 11, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
The sun in heaven was darkened when Christ the Lord was slain,
And in the holy Temple the veil was rent in twain;
And all His sad disciples in sorrow bowed the head;
They thought His reign was ended; was not the Master dead?
Within the tomb they laid Him; the Roman watch was set,
And there were moans and weeping where'er His followers met;
All hope was dead within them; the Star of Bethlehem
Had set in utter darkness, and what was left for them?
In sorrow and in mourning the Sabbath passed away;
But early on the morrow, just at the break of day,
To seek His tomb the Marys went silently and slow,
Who by the cross had waited, and were the last to go.
They carried precious ointment and spices rich and rare,
The body of the Master for burial to prepare;
Their hearts were sad and heavy, their weeping eyes downcast,
[Pg 370]And not a word was spoken as toward the tomb they passed.
But when they stood beside it, what wonder struck their sight?
Behold, a glorious angel, in robes of shining white;
They heard with joy and wonder the gracious words he said:
"Why seek ye here the Master, the living with the dead?
"For lo! He hath arisen—behold where He hath lain—
From death He hath arisen for evermore to reign;
Go, tell His sad disciples, that they may weep no more;
In Galilee then seek Him, where He hath gone before."
'Twas in the early morning, just at the break of day,
He rose to drive the darkness, the night of sin, away;
And on this dawn there follows no darkness and no night;
He lives and reigns forever, the Lord of life and light.
Nearly nineteen hundred years ago there dawned in Jerusalem, that once-favored city, the glorious morning of the Resurrection. This Holy City has not vanished from the face of the earth, but still stands a silent witness of the scene so dear to humanity that was once enacted there.
All over the Christian world, wherever it is celebrated, Easter brings its wondrous tide of joy and gladness, but in Jerusalem it is observed with great rejoicings. That city is now, even as it was of old, the resort of thousands of pilgrims from every quarter of the globe, who come to spend Easter within its ancient walls. These visitors differ from one another in ideas, manners, language, and costume, and yet have a certain unity in the purpose for which they have assembled.
Every pilgrim wends his way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is, according to tradition, the tomb of our Saviour. This church is a large building, with beautiful belfries, its front is richly sculptured, and though time-worn and gray, it presents a magnificent appearance. It is now always crowded with pilgrims from every clime, of every race and color, worshipping at the various shrines.
Six different denominations—Roman Catholic, Greek, Armenians, Syrians, Copts, and Maronites—perform their services in their own rites and language in this church, so that a spectator can see almost every nationality represented there in its own peculiar costume.
Jerusalem is a little world in itself at this time of the year. The streets are very gay and crowded. Merchants from Damascus and other places come hither, bringing wares of various kinds, which they display in the stores. Life and activity are the characteristics of this season.
The Mohammedans, also, celebrate the death of Moses at this time, and the streets are filled with their pilgrim processions, consisting of men and boys with drums, tabors, cymbals, and tambourines, which combine to produce a peculiarly barbarous sound. Then come dervishes, with long dishevelled hair, carrying spears and hatchets, dancing, leaping, and feigning to cut themselves with swords. Following all these is a mixed crowd of men, women, and children shouting, singing, and clapping their hands. Thus they proceed to the supposed tomb of Moses, which the Mohammedans have located on the western side of the Jordan.
Eggs beautifully colored are seen in almost every store, and hundreds of children crowd round them, buying as many as they can. Then they get together, and see who can win the most eggs by breaking both ends with one strong egg. These eggs are hard boiled, and when broken are eaten by the children, or sold to each other for a mere nothing.
On Good-Friday the Protestant residents (German, English, and American) go out to the Garden of Gethsemane, and hold a short religious service under the ancient olive-trees, singing favorite old hymns. Easter-morning services are held in the quaint Gothic English church, which is then often crowded with American and English tourists. The hymn "Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Hallelujah!" is sung with fervor; and when the clergyman reads the lesson for the day, one can almost picture to himself how Christ, nineteen hundred years ago, walked through this very city, blessing just such little children as those who now throng the streets selling bright flowers.
In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre services are conducted all Saturday night until Sunday at dawn, when hundreds of bells ring out their chimes that the Saviour is risen. The church is so crowded as to leave barely standing room, and the vast multitude, led by the priests and accompanied by the rich peals of the organ, sing the hymn of the Resurrection. After the blessing is pronounced, the congregation salute each other with "Christ is risen!—may we live to celebrate this feast another year!"
Easter-tide in Jerusalem is the children's great festival, more so than Christmas, because they receive more presents at this "Great Feast," as it is there called. Every child, rich and poor, has a new outfit made for this day, and cakes and candies in abundance. Besides the gorgeously tinted eggs there are bright-colored cards and other tokens suitable to the day, and amusements of every description are arranged.
Easter picnics continue during the two following weeks. The fields are at this time of the year all green with half-ripe grain, and bright flowers are seen everywhere. Nature is clothed in her gayest robes of beauty. In order to make these picnics more enjoyable for the children, many families and schools have a fashion of hiding brilliant eggs, colored in red, blue, yellow, pink, purple, and gold, among the mossy rocks and in the green grass amongst the flowers. The children are then sent to hunt for them, and a great deal of merriment is excited as they eagerly rush about, each one trying to find the most.
So to a Jerusalem child Easter is always associated with a crowded city of strangers from all parts of the world, clear blue skies, and bright green fields filled with beautiful flowers. Everybody rejoices and commemorates the glorious resurrection of the Son of Man, who, like themselves, was once a child in this very city, and witnessed similar scenes, when strangers came from afar to celebrate the Feast of the Passover at Jerusalem.
Reddy had laid his plans so well that all the intending partners were where they could easily be found on this evening when Toby's consent was to be won, and Ben Cushing was no exception. On the hard, uneven floor of his father's barn, with all his clothes discarded save his trousers and shirt, he was making such heroic efforts in the way of practice, that while the boys were yet some distance from the building they could hear the thud of Ben's head or heels as he unexpectedly came in contact with the floor.
BEN PRACTICING IN HIS FATHER'S BARN.
When the three visitors stood at the door and looked in, Ben professed to be unaware of their presence, and began a series of hand-springs that might have been wonderful if he had not miscalculated the distance, and struck the side of the barn just as he was getting well into the work.
Then, having lost his opportunity of dazzling them by showing that even when he was alone he could turn any[Pg 371] number of hand-springs simply in the way of exercise, he suddenly became aware of their presence, and greeted his friends with the anxiously asked question as to what Toby had decided to do about entering the circus business.
Bob and Reddy, instead of answering, waited for Toby to speak; it was a good opportunity to have the important matter settled definitely, and they listened anxiously for his decision.
"I'm goin' into it," said Toby, after a pause, during which it appeared as if he were trying to make up his mind, "'cause it seems as if you had it almost done now. You know, when I got home last summer, I didn't ever want to hear of a circus or see one, for I'd had about enough of them; an' then I'd think of poor Mr. Stubbs, an' that would make me feel awful bad. I didn't think, either, that we could get up such a good show; but now you fellers have got so much done toward it, I think we'd better go ahead—though I do wish Mr. Stubbs was alive, an' we had a skeleton an' a fat woman."
Reddy Grant cheered very loudly as a means of showing how delighted he was at thus having finally enlisted Toby in the scheme, and Bob, as proof of the high esteem in which all the projectors of the enterprise held this famous circus-rider, said:
"Now you know all about circuses, Toby, an' you shall be the chief boss of this one, an' we'll do just what you say."
Toby almost blushed as this great honor was actually thrust upon him, and he hardly knew what reply to make, when Ben ceased his acrobatic exercises, and with Bobby and Reddy stood waiting for him to give his orders.
"I s'pose the first thing to do," he said at length, "is to see if Jack Douglass is willin' for us to have his hoss, an' then find out what Uncle Dan'l says about it. If we don't get the hoss, it won't be any use to say anything to Uncle Dan'l."
Reddy was so anxious to have matters settled at once that he offered to go up to Mr. Douglass's house then, if the others would wait there for his return, which proposition was at once accepted.
Mr. Douglass was an old colored man who lived fully half a mile from the village; but Reddy's eagerness caused quick travelling, and in a surprisingly short time he was back, breathless and happy. The coveted horse was to be theirs for as long a time as they wanted him, provided they fed him well, and did not attempt to harness him into a wagon.
The owner of the sightless animal had expressed his doubts as to whether he would ever make much of a circus horse, owing to his lack of sight and his extreme age; but he argued that if, as was very probable, the animal fell while being ridden, he would hurt his rider quite as much as himself, and therefore the experiment would not be tried so often as seriously to injure the steed.
It only remained to consult Uncle Daniel on the matter, and of course that was to be attended to by Toby. He would have waited until a fitting opportunity presented itself, but his companions were so impatient, that he went home at once to have the case decided.
Uncle Daniel was seated by the window as usual, looking out over the distant hills as if he were trying to peer in at the gates of that city where so many loved ones awaited him, and it was some moments before Toby could make him understand what it was he was trying to say.
"So ye didn't get circusin' enough last summer?" asked the old gentleman, when at last he realized what it was the boy was talking about.
"Oh yes, I did," replied Toby, quickly; "but you see that was a real one, an' this of ours is only a little make-believe for three cents. We want to get you to let us have the lot between the barn an' the road to put our tent on, an' then lend us old Whitey. We're goin' to have Jack Douglass's hoss that's blind, an' we've got a three-legged cat, an' one without any tail, an' lots of things."
"It's a kind of a cripples' circus, eh? Well, Toby boy, you can do as you want to, an' you shall have old Whitey; but it seems to me you'd better tie her lame leg on, or she'll shake it off when you get to makin' her cut up antics."
Then Uncle Daniel returned to his reverie, and the show was thus decided upon, the projectors going again to view the triangular piece of land so soon to be decorated with their tents and circus belongings.
Each hour that passed after Toby had decided, with Uncle Daniel's consent, to go into the circus business, made him more eager to carry out the brilliant plan that had been unfolded by Bob Atwood and Reddy Grant, until his brain was in a perfect whirl when he went to bed that night.
He was sure he could ride as well as when he was under Mr. Castle's rather severe training, and he thought over and over again how he would surprise every one who knew him; but he did not stop to think that there might be a difference between the horse he had ridden in the circus and the lame one of Uncle Daniel's, or the blind one belonging to Mr. Douglass. He had an idea that it all depended upon himself, with very little reference to the animal, and he was sure he had his lesson perfectly.
Early as he got up the next morning, his partners in the enterprise were waiting for him just around the corner of the barn, where he found them as he went for the cows, and they walked to the pasture with him in order to discuss the matter.
Ben Cushing was in light marching and acrobatic costume, worn for the occasion, in order to give a full exhibition of his skill; and Reddy had been up so long that he had had time to procure Mr. Douglass's wonderful steed, which he had already led to the pasture, so that he could be experimented upon.
"I thought I'd get him up there," he said to Toby, "so's you could try him; 'cause if we don't get money enough to hire one of Rube Rowe, you'll have to ride the blind one or the lame one, an' you'd better find out which you want. If you try him in the pasture, the fellers won't see you; but if you did it down by your house, every one of 'em would huddle 'round."
It was a warm job Bob had undertaken, this leading the blind animal along the ill-defined line that marked the limits of the ring, for the sun shone brightly, and there were no friendly trees to lend a shelter; but he paid no attention to his discomfort, because of the fact that he was doing something toward the enterprise which was to bring them in both honor and money.
The poor old horse was the least interested of the party, and he stumbled around the circle in an abused sort of way, as if he considered it a piece of gross injustice to force him on the weary round when the grass was so plentiful and tender just under his feet.
Ben was busily engaged in lengthening Mr. Douglass's rather weak and aged bridle with a small piece of rope, and from time to time he encouraged the ambitious clown in his labor.
"Keep it up, if it is hot!" he shouted, "an' when we get him so's he can do it alone, he'll be jest as good a circus hoss as anybody would want, for we can stuff him with hay an' grass till he's fat," and Ben looked at the clearly defined ribs in a critical way, as if trying to decide how much food would be necessary to cover them with flesh.
"Oh, I can keep on as long as the hoss can," said Bob, as he wiped the perspiration from his face with one hand, and clung firmly to the forelock of the animal with the other; "but we've been round here as many as six times already, an' he don't seem to know the way any better than when we started!"
"Oh yes, he does," cried Reddy, who was practicing for his duties as ring-master, anxious that his education should advance as fast as the horse's did; "he's got so he knows enough to turn out for that second knoll, though he does stumble a little over the first one."
By this time Ben had the bridle adjusted to suit him, Toby was ready to make his first attempt at riding since he left the circus, and the more serious work was begun.
Ben bridled the horse after some difficulty, Reddy drew out from its hiding-place a whip made by tying a piece of cod line to an alder branch, and Toby was about to mount, when Joe Robinson came in sight.
He had been running at full speed, and was nearly breathless; but he managed to cry out so that he could be understood after considerable difficulty:
"Hold on! don't go to ridin' till after we get some hoops for you to jump through."
"I guess I won't try any jumpin' till after I see how he goes," said Toby, as he looked rather doubtfully, first at the horse's weak legs, and then at his sharp back; "besides, we can't use the hoops till he gets more used to the ring."
Joe threw himself on the ground as if he felt quite as much aggrieved because he was thus left out of the programme as the horse apparently did because he was in it, and Bob consoled him by explaining that he had no reason to feel slighted, since he, who, as the clown, was to be the life of the entertainment, could take no other part in these preparatory steps than to lead a blind horse round a still blinder ring.
"Hold him while I get on," said Toby, as he clutched the mane and a portion of the prominent backbone, drawing himself up at some risk of upsetting the rather shaky steed.
But there was no necessity of his giving this order, for, although four boys sprang to do his bidding, the weary horse remained as motionless as a statue, save for his hard breathing, which proclaimed the fact that the "heaves" had long since singled him out as a victim.
Toby succeeded in getting on the animal's back after some exertion; but he found standing there an entirely different matter from standing on the broad saddles that were used in the circus, and the boy and the horse made a shaky-looking pair.
"Shall I start him?" asked Bob, while Reddy stood as near the centre of the ring as he could get, prepared to snap his cod-line whip at the first signal.
Toby hesitated a moment; he knew that to attempt to stand up on, or on either side of, that prominent backbone, after its owner was in motion, would be simply to invite his own downfall; and he said, as he seated himself carefully astride the bone:
"Let him walk around once till I see how he goes."
Reddy cracked his whip without producing any effect upon the patient steed, but, after much coaxing, Bob succeeded in starting him again, while Toby bounced up and down much like a kernel of corn on a griddle, such a decided motion did the horse have.
"He won't ever do for a ridin' hoss," said Toby, with much difficulty, when he was half-way around the circle, "'cause you see his bones is so sharp that he feels as if he was comin' to pieces every time he steps."
"Jest get him to trottin' once, an' then you can tell what he's good for," suggested Reddy, anxious to try the effect of his whip; and without waiting for the rider's permission, he lashed the unfortunate animal with the cod line until he succeeded in rousing him thoroughly.
It was in vain Toby begged him to stop, and Bob shouted that such a course was not the proper one for a ring-master to pursue. Reddy was determined the rider should have an opportunity of trying the horse under full speed, and the result was that the animal broke loose from Bob's guiding hand, rushing out of the imaginary ring into the centre of the pasture at a rate of speed that would have surprised and frightened Mr. Douglass had he been there to see it.
Shaken first up, then down, and from one side to the other, Toby stretched himself out at full length, clasping the horse around the neck as the patched bridle broke, and shouting "Whoa!" at the full strength of his lungs.
After running fully fifty yards, until it seemed to Toby that his head and his body had been pounded into one, the horse stopped, leaned one heel up against the other, and stood as if dreamily asking whether they wanted any more circus out of him.
"Couldn't anybody ride him, he jolts so," said Toby to his partners, as they came running up to where he stood. "You see, in the circus they had big, wide saddles, an' the hosses didn't go anything like him."
"Well, we can fix a saddle," said Bob, thoughtfully; "but I don't know as we could do anything to the hoss."
"Perhaps old Whitey'll go better, 'cause she's lame," suggested Reddy, feeling that considerable credit was due him for having made it possible to test the animal's qualities in so short a time.
"I wouldn't wonder if this one would be all right when he gets a saddle on an' is trained," said Joe; and then he added, quickly, "I hain't got anything more to do to-day, an' I'll stay up here an' train him."
The partners were only too glad to accept this offer; and while Joe led the horse back to the supposed ring, Ben gave a partial exhibition of his acrobatic feats, omitting the most difficult, owing to the uneven surface of the land.
Then the partners retired to the shade of some alder bushes, where they could fight mosquitoes and talk over their plans at the same time, while Joe was perspiring in his self-imposed task of educating the blind horse.
Just at the present moment there is not, I think, in all Europe or America a personage more talked about than Jumbo. Even the Queen, who was shot at a few weeks ago by a poor crazy man, but not hurt; even the Czar, who is shut up in one of his Russian palaces for fear of being shot at, are having less said about them.
Jumbo, as I am perfectly sure you all know as well as I do, is an elephant, the biggest elephant in captivity, as gentle as he is big, and the English people, young and old, are very fond of him.
He is an African elephant, and Sir Samuel Baker, a Fellow of the Zoological Society, who knows a great deal about elephants, says that he knew Jumbo when he was a baby about four and a half feet high, and had just been captured by Arabs on the shore of the Settite River, in Abyssinia, in 1861. Now Jumbo, the pride of the English Zoo, is twenty-one years old, and measures eleven feet in height to his withers, which is the high ridge between the shoulder-blades just at the end of the neck. He is very skillful in catching buns and apples which are thrown to him by his young admirers.
A FAREWELL RIDE ON JUMBO.
Our picture of this enormous but gentle creature represents him in the act of giving a farewell ride to a party of his little friends. From this picture you will see that Jumbo's head and ears differ from those of the Indian species. His forehead is not so high and prominent; his ears are much larger, of a different and handsomer shape, while the brows are very large and full over the eyes, and the eyes themselves, when you can see them through the thick long lashes, have a really wonderful expression of intelligence and dignity. He has a long trunk, very powerful and graceful; but his tusks seem to be only roots, just showing through the skin at the sides of the face, and it is said that he has kept them worn down by rubbing them against the walls of his den.
As soon as it was known that our great American showman, Mr. Barnum, had bought Jumbo for his travelling show, Jumbo, big as he is, was in everybody's mouth, and a very great fuss was made about his own unwillingness to go. The newspapers took up the matter, and gave whole columns of talk to Jumbo. It seemed to be taken for granted that nothing more dreadful could happen to the poor beast than to fall into Mr. Barnum's hands.
The newspapers printed a great many letters from children, who offered their pocket-money, in sums from sixpence to three or five shillings, to buy Jumbo back again. They all wrote with the same idea, that Jumbo would be cruelly used, and would surely die, if he were taken away; but still it was quite clear that the little writers of these letters were not entirely unselfish in their grief, for they had a great deal to say about the nice rides they had already had, and still wished to have, on Jumbo's enormous back.
Older people went so far as to propose to raise money to pay back to Mr. Barnum the £2000 he had given for Jumbo, and perhaps £400 or £500 besides for his disappointment, but nothing more was said of this plan after Mr. Barnum telegraphed that £100,000 would not buy Jumbo back. As Mr. Scott, Jumbo's keeper, said to me, "Mr. Barnum understands his business," and it began to appear that the Zoo Society Council had not understood theirs. Every one who knows Mr. Barnum knows that he is exceedingly kind to animals, and that they thrive, are happy, and live long under his care.
But the English people are not so well acquainted with Mr. Barnum as they will be, perhaps, when Jumbo comes back to the English "Zoo"—as Mr. Barnum very kindly says that he may—and tells his own story. And, after all, it is only fair that Jumbo should try for himself the flavor of American buns, and find that the boys and girls of America are as pleasant to carry and as kind as their English cousins.
People old and young flocked daily to the "Zoo." They carried bags and baskets of buns, crackers, and sweetmeats, and everybody went straight to the elephant-house. Parrots, monkeys, pelicans, and lions were nowhere. On Ash-Wednesday (February 22), I went myself, and when I first entered the elephant-house I thought it must be all[Pg 374] going to tumble down, I heard such a loud, startling noise. But it was only Alice, the elephant that they call Jumbo's wife, calling for food. The sound she made by gathering her breath in her cheeks, and blowing it forcibly through her long trunk, was much like that made by crashing both hands strongly down on the bass keys of a church organ when all the loud stops are on.
The greatest crowd was in front of Jumbo's cell. He did not call for food, but stretched his long and elastic trunk out in front of us just like a plate for pennies in church. When let out of the garden, he walked quietly with an even and slow step—which took him along so fast, though, that Scott had to run to keep up with him—until he came to the ladder where the children climb to mount him. The saddle, or howdah, as it is called, was put on his back, and more than a dozen boys and girls mounted, and away went Jumbo, stepping so slowly, but going fifteen feet at a step. Five times I saw him go down the promenade with his laughing load, and come back again to the ladder for a new supply, and each time he looked larger to me than ever. Then he went back with his keeper to his house, and I came away.
After Jumbo was sold, and the problem of moving him came to be considered, an effort was made to get him out of the Gardens and to the Millwall Docks on foot. He went along willingly enough, Scott leading him, until they reached the end of the "Zoo" grounds, but before going out into the road he tried it cautiously with his feet, and perceiving at once that it did not feel like the shingle paths in the "Zoo," he was afraid, and would go no farther.
Then a great box was made, which stood open at both ends. This was mounted on strong wheels, and was so placed in the garden gateway that when the elephants passed out from their own garden into the main grounds they had to walk through it. The wheels were sunk into the ground on a track, and the floor of the box was on a level with the ground. Alice walked through the box back and forth quite willingly, but for some days it was impossible to coax Jumbo to go into it.
Scott was asked to try whipping Jumbo, but he answered that he had never yet struck his favorite a blow, and he never should. In all other respects Jumbo was perfectly obedient and gentle, but he seemed to think that the box was a trap, and to know almost as well as everybody else that if he once went in, he might not come out. It was the intention to let him get used to the box by going through it, and then it was thought that when at last it was closed upon him he would not mind so much about it.
He was also put in chains, in order to accustom him to being fastened during the voyage. At first they were only put on in the mornings, but he made so much fuss and trouble about having them put on the last time, it was thought unwise to remove them again. They are cased in leather, so as not to fret him in the least. They were spread in loops, all over the floor of his cell, and men stood ready at different points to draw them up around him the moment he should place his feet within any of the loops; but the intelligent fellow managed to avoid them for some time.
But he grew tired at last, and began to thrash about with his trunk and ears, and Scott, who was in his cell with him, trying to persuade him, got suddenly pushed up against the wall by a backward movement of Jumbo's huge body. In a moment more he would have been crushed to death, but he had the presence of mind to call kindly to Jumbo, who understood, turned instantly, and released him. Jumbo then became quiet, and the chains were placed.
Kind treatment finally set Jumbo's suspicions at rest, and he was persuaded to walk through the strong box and back again. When this had been done a number of times the box was fastened at both ends, and the poor fellow was a prisoner. He was then, without further delay, shipped on board the Assyrian Monarch, and on the 22d of March started on his voyage across the Atlantic.
It is claimed that Jumbo was sold because he had now become liable to have the "must," a disease peculiar to most full-grown elephants, in which they become very dangerous. Jumbo has had only one attack, and was well behaved during it when let out of his cell. Scott does not feel afraid of him, and Mr. Barnum has so long had the care of elephants that we think Jumbo's best friend need not worry about him.
Did you ever hear of John Pounds? Probably not, and yet he was one of the world's benefactors. He was born in 1766, in Portsmouth, England.
In early life he learned the trade of a shipwright, but was so injured by a fall that he had to abandon this. He then mastered the art of mending shoes, and hired a little room in a weather-beaten tenement, where for a while he lived alone, except for his birds. He loved birds dearly, and always had a number of them flying about his room, perching on his shoulder, or feeding from his hand.
In the course of time, a little cripple boy, his nephew, came to live with Uncle John and the linnets and sparrows. The poor child had not the use of his feet, which overlapped each other, and turned inward. The kind uncle did not rest until he had gradually untwisted the feet, strengthening them by an apparatus of old shoes and leather, and finally taught them to walk.
Then he thought how much more pleasantly the time would pass for the boy if he knew how to read and write, and so he began to instruct him. Presently it occurred to him that he could teach a class as easily as he could manage one pupil. So he invited some of the neighboring children in, and, as the years went on, this singular picture might be seen:
In the centre of the little shop, six feet wide and about eighteen feet long, the lame cobbler, with his jolly face and twinkling eyes, would be seated, his last or lapstone on his knee, and his hands busily plying the needle and thread. All around him would be faces. Dark eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, would shine from every corner, and the hum of young voices and the tapping of slate-pencils were mingled with the singing of the birds which enjoyed the buzz of the school.
Some of the pupils sat on the steps of the narrow stairway which led up to the loft which was John's bedroom. Others were on boxes or blocks of wood, and some sat contentedly on the floor. They learned to read, write, and cipher as far as the Rule of Three, and besides they learned good morals, for much homely wisdom fell from the cobbler's lips.
Hundreds of boys who had no other chance—for he gathered his scholars from the poorest of the poor—learned all they ever knew of books from this humble teacher. His happiest days were when some sunburned sailor or soldier would stop in his doorway, perhaps with a parrot or a monkey in his arms, saying, "Why, master dear, you surely have not forgotten me, I hope?"
John Pounds taught his little school for more than forty years, never asking nor accepting a cent of payment from any one.
At the age of seventy-two, on January 1, 1839, he suddenly died, while looking with delight at a sketch of his school which had just been made by an artist. For many days the children of the place were inconsolable, and by twos and threes they came and stood by the closed door which in John Pounds's time had always been open to the needy.
A life like this, so lowly yet so useful, contains lessons for us all.
aptain Skinner and his miners were well mounted, and they were tough, seasoned horsemen. They were in a great hurry, too, for their minds were full of dreams of the good times they meant to have.
They made an astonishingly long day's march, and did not meet with the slightest sign of danger. That night they slept soundly on their blankets in the open air, and perhaps some of them dreamed that in a few nights more they would have roofs over their heads, and wake up in the morning to find hot coffee on the breakfast table. No bell rang for them, however, when breakfast-time came; but when they had nearly completed their simple meal of broiled beef and cold water, their ears were saluted by a very different sound.
"Horses! Rifles! Mount! Boys," shouted the little Captain, "that's a cavalry bugle."
Cavalry!
They sprang for their arms, and mounted in hot haste. But before the last man was in the saddle, the music of that bugle was close upon them.
"No use to fight, boys, even if they were enemies. There's more'n three hundred of 'em; Regulars, too. What on earth brings 'em away up here? Can't be there's any revolution going on?"
"It isn't too late for us to run, Cap," suggested Bill.
"Yes, it is. They'd catch us in no time. Besides, we haven't done anything to run for."
"Not to them, we haven't."
In a few minutes more it was too late, if it had not been just then, for the gleaming lances of a full company of the Mexicans began to shine above the grass and bushes behind the miners.
"Trapped, boys. I wonder what they're going to do?"
The Mexican commander was nearly ready to tell them. His really splendid-looking horsemen closed steadily in upon the silent squad of wild-looking desperadoes, and he himself rode forward toward them, accompanied by two officers in brilliant uniforms.
Captain Skinner rode out as if to meet him, but was greeted by an imperative, loud-voiced, "Halt! Dismount."
The fire flashed from the eyes of the little Captain.
"DISMOUNT BEHIND YOUR HOSSES, AND TAKE AIM ACROSS THE SADDLE."
"Close up, boys. Dismount behind your hosses, and take aim across the saddle."
He was obeyed like clock-work, and it was the Colonel's turn to "halt," for no less than three of those deadly dark tubes were pointing straight at him, and he saw with what sort of men he was dealing. Had they been six dozen instead of only less than two, they would not have hesitated a second about charging in upon his gay lancers, and would probably have scattered them right and left.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded of Captain Skinner.
"Travelling."
"Where are you going?"
"Going to try and mind our own business."
"Where did you come from?"
"Across the border. Driven out of the mines by Apaches. Didn't expect to find Mexican regular cavalry worse than the red-skins."
"We will see about that, señor. You are our prisoners."
"All right, so long as none of you come too near. It won't be healthy for any of you to try."
"No harm is intended you, señor. We are sent to guard this frontier against the Apaches, and to put down a small pronunciamento."
Captain Skinner knew what that meant. There had been some sort of a little revolution in that part of Mexico, and he and his men were suspected of having crossed the border to take part in it.
"All right, Colonel. All we want is to march right along. We can pay our own way."
That was the first blunder the wily Captain had made.
A half-scornful smile shot across the dark face of the Colonel, as he looked at those ragged men, and wondered how much they would be likely to pay for anything.
A young officer at his side was more sagacious, and suggested: "I beg a thousand pardons, Colonel, but they are miners."
"Ah! They may have been successful."
The expression of his face underwent a rapid change, and there was nothing scornful in it when he remarked to Captain Skinner that the price of a written "safe-conduct" for him and his men would be a hundred dollars each.
"All right, Señor Colonel," said the Captain. "We will pay you in gold as soon as it's written."
One of the young officers at once dismounted and produced a supply of writing materials. The "safe-conduct" was a curious document, and nothing exactly like it could have been had or bought of any cavalry officer in the United States. It was written in Spanish, of course, and it appeared to vouch for the peaceable and honest character and intentions of the entire company of miners.
The latter stood sternly behind their horses, in a dangerous-looking circle, while the bargain was making, and the Captain himself had coin enough to pay for them all, without calling for contributions.
The Colonel was very polite now, and gave very accurate advice and instructions as to the route the miners would do well to follow.
Captain Skinner's second blunder was that he determined to go by the road laid out for him by the Colonel.
Perhaps he might not have done so if he had read one other piece of paper that the young officer wrote for his Colonel to sign; or if he had seen it handed to a lancer, who rode away with it at full speed along the precise path the Colonel was describing.
It was addressed, with many titles and formalities, to "General Vincente Garcia," and it was delivered by the lancer-postman within three hours.
Captain Skinner and his men knew nothing about that, and when noon came they found a capital camping place precisely as it had been described to them.
"Cap, do you hear that? If it ain't another bugle, you can shoot me."
More than one was heard within the next half-hour, and three consecutive squadrons of lancers rode within sight.
As soon as they saw the miners a halt was ordered and a consultation held. In a few moments a couple of officers approached.
It was their duty, they said, with many apologies. General Garcia desired to know who were his neighbors, and so forth.
The Colonel's "safe-conduct" was shown them, and they actually touched their hats when they read it.
It was entirely satisfactory. The General would be glad to sign the safe-conduct himself, as the officer in supreme command of the district.
That was precisely what the Captain thought he wanted, and he consented at once. The Mexicans were as good as their word, and the miners were astonished at the cordial hospitality of their welcome in the cavalry camp. Every "mess" came forward to claim a guest, and they were speedily distributed in a way which left no two of them together.
Captain Skinner found General Garcia as polite as any of the others. Not a word would he speak about business until after dinner, and so the Captain did not know until then how great a mistake he had made in permitting his men to be scattered.
"You will permit us to go on with our journey, will you not, General?" said he at last, over the coffee.
"Certainly. Without doubt. We shall not detain you an hour. But the señor is a caballero of experience and knowledge; he will understand that I can not permit so strong a body of foreigners to march through my district armed."
"Armed? We always go armed."
"At home. Of course. You have your own laws and customs. I must enforce those of Mexico, and this district is under martial law."
So smiling and so polite was the General that Captain Skinner could almost believe he was sorry to be compelled to enforce that law. He tried, therefore, to argue the point, and was still trying, when one of his men came rushing up, knocking over a Mexican as he came, and shouting: "Cap, they've took every weapon I had. Did it while I was eatin'. And they won't give them up."
"Will Señor Skinner do me the favor to tell his friend that this is by my orders?"
The General smiled as he said it.
It was another half-hour before the different "messes" in all parts of the camp brought up to "head-quarters" each its angry and disarmed guest.
"It's no use, boys," said Captain Skinner to his crest-fallen band. "It's martial law, and we may as well submit. We'd best mount and ride now."
Again General Garcia felt called upon to smile and be very polite. His command was greatly in need of horses. Those of the American caballeros were just suited to cavalry use. He had given orders to supply their places with ponies good enough for ordinary travel.
"Oh, if we only had our rifles, Cap!" exclaimed Bill. "Anyhow, we'll get our saddles back."
More than one bearded face grew a little pale at the thought of those saddles.
The General's own chief of staff had attended to their transfer from the backs of the splendid American horses to those of the wretched little Mexican ponies, and he had noticed how heavy they all were. It was his duty, therefore, to search them, and not a saddle among them all was now any heavier than a saddle of that size ought to be.
"The ponies," remarked the polite Mexican, "are not strong enough to carry all that gold bullion as well as those heavy Gringo miners."
It was a sad dinner party for Captain Skinner and his miners. It had been planned for them by their friend the Colonel of lancers, and General Garcia had carried it out to perfection. He even gave them a good supply of coffee and other matters when they departed, and added, politely: "My dear Captain, I have not been so unkind as to search you. You will no doubt have that happiness also in due time."
"Not a doubt of it," growled the Captain, "now we're unarmed."
And it turned out as he feared, for not an ounce of stolen gold was to be found in the pockets of that ragged band within ten days of their "first good dinner."
"DON'T WANT TO BE WASHED."
A dilapidated pocket diary for 1860 lies on my writing-desk. There is a faint suggestiveness of bilge-water and tar and damp woollen shirts about it. The pencilled leaves are soaked and stained with salt-water. Only now and then do I find a legible word or sentence until I reach the middle of the book, where my eyes fall upon the following badly blotted record:
"Fri..., July 2.—Blowi.. grea. gun. ..om S.S.W. ..... close reef ........ iced up ..... overboard .... Mr. Burn. secon. mate ..... Wayland, .....ard bound."
Do I dream it, or does some one mention to-morrow as my thirty-eighth birthday? Nonsense! I am only sixteen—making my first sea-voyage "round the Horn" in the ship Sandwich—Drew, master—fifty-eight days out from New York.
I have not found a sailor's life all that my fancy painted it; rather the reverse. I am disappointed with the life for which I once longed so eagerly—disgusted, I may say. Which is not so surprising. Like other home boys, I have been accustomed to wear dry clothing, to sleep all night, to have father and mother— But never mind; those last words make me feel more homesick than ever.
It is seven o'clock a.m.—or six bells, if you like it better. The starboard watch, to which I belong, is on deck, but as all hands have spent rather more time on deck than below for about two weeks, it don't matter much, only for the prospect of hot coffee sweetened with molasses at breakfast-time. And when a fellow has not had a dry thread on him for days, something hot to drink, even if it's only dried peas and chiccory, is a great luxury.
Of course it is blowing a gale of wind—it has done nothing else for a month, but for a wonder the gale comes from the right direction. That is why Captain Drew is carrying sail so, for, taking advantage of the fair wind, the old ship is running like mad through the straits of Le Maire, which is a passage about fourteen miles wide, between Staten Land and Terra del Fuego.
Yesterday the decks were all awash with water, and the rigging dripped like a sponge. To-day everything from the royal truck down is covered with ice. This is very hard upon one's fingers, especially as it don't do to wear mittens aloft—even if you have them.
If you want to know how it seems to reef or stow a sail at such times, just try and roll up a yard or two of sheet-iron, out-of-doors, with bare hands, when the thermometer is at zero or a little lower. But it is not hard to get round deck in icy weather. Oh no. All you have to do is to sit down and wait for the ship to roll the right way—you won't have long to wait, either.
It blows harder than ever. I should like to see a picture of the old ship now, as with everything set but the royals, she goes tearing and plunging through the long gray seas, with a gray sky overhead, and a gray fog-bank all around the horizon. How I should enjoy seeing such a picture—especially if it was hanging against the sitting-room wall, and I was standing directly in front of it!
"Look!" exclaims old Martin, who is standing beside me at the rail. And all at once on the starboard bow I see breaking through the gray mist a bleak, barren, rocky promontory, pointing like a great index finger to the place where the waters of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans meet. At least so I try to express it in a poetical kind of way, but old Martin only grinned.
"That's Cape 'Orn," he replies, "an' before we get round t'other side of it, if we don't ketch it, call me a Dutchman."
I had thought there was nothing left in the way of bad weather to catch. But I am mistaken. By six o'clock in the afternoon the ship is under lower topsails, with yards braced against the backstays, buffeting the longest seas and the fiercest southwest gales of rain, sleet, snow, and hail that we have seen yet.
It is all the work of a moment. I have just lashed the starboard side-light in the fore-rigging in obedience to the second mate's orders, and before I can swing myself inboard, the Sandwich buries herself bodily in a tremendous sea. My numb fingers relax their hold on the icy ratlines, and I feel myself swept away in the grasp of a mighty wave.
It seems that I am not alone. As I dash the water from my eyes, I see some one swimming, or rather treading water, within arm's-length. It is Mr. Burns, the second mate.
"Keep cool, boy," he shouts, "and kick your boots off first of all."
Fortunately I am not encumbered with a coat, and encouraged by his presence, I rid myself of my boots without much trouble. But I am at best an indifferent swimmer, while Mr. Burns, who was born on Cape Cod, seems perfectly at home even in the long topping seas against which I beat with frantic arms.
"Rest your two hands on my shoulders," he says, "and give over struggling. There'll be a boat out after us directly." But as I too readily obey, I note in the gathering darkness that on his usually cheery face is a look of anxiety. He does not expend his strength in swimming, but merely moves his legs and arms in such a way as to keep us both afloat.
I am chilled and numbed with the terrible cold. I can not speak, can hardly think. Down we sink into a deep black valley of water, to rise on the cresting summit of an awful wave, again and again, but still no welcome sound of oars rattling in rowlocks. An hour passes, which seems an age, and I despairingly see that Mr. Burns shows signs of growing weakness.
This fact, together with the growing darkness, benumbing cold, and shrieking gale, does away with the last remnant of my courage.
"It's no use, Mr. Burns," I gasp through my chattering teeth; "I'm going to let go. Good-by, sir."
Life is very dear to the young second mate. He has a wife and babe in his far-off home; no wonder that he makes no reply. Life is dear to me too, for that matter, only I have lost hope, and he has not. With a whispered prayer, I take my hands from his shoulders, and in another moment am swept unresistingly away in the darkness.
But all at once my outstretched hands touch some floating object, which at the same time strikes against my chest. Mechanically I throw both arms over it, and am vaguely conscious of being easily buoyed up, but by what I can not conceive. I dimly know that it is smooth, soft, round, and somewhat slimy to the touch. For aught I know or care, it may be the sea-serpent himself; but I am past conjecture. A drowsy, numbing, and by no means unpleasant stupor is creeping over me, while, as the roaring of wind and sea is strangely blended with an increasing singing in my ears, I dreamily drift into oblivion, my last conscious thought being that dying is not so very disagreeable after all.
"We was running afore it for the straits of Le Maire, and Jim Coffin on the lookout at daybreak sings out that he see the sea-sarpint ahead, with what looked like a mermaid alongside. We brought the schooner to the wind, lowered the boat, and picked you up; and though you was the deadest live man ever I see, it was all Dan and me could do to unhook your arms from round the big kelp—sea-weed stuff, you know, large round some of it as a t'gallan'-yard—that you was hanging to. But we got you aboard all right, and I hope you ain't feeling none the worse for coming to life again."
Such is the explanation to which I listen as one in a strange dream, while I stare vacantly about me from[Pg 379] among the blankets of a narrow berth in a snug little cabin. The speaker is Captain Samuel Dole, of the sailing schooner Wayland, from Desolation Island, bound to New London, Connecticut, with a full fare of skins and seal oil. Captain Dole administers divers restoratives with such good effect that by night I am clothed and in my right mind again.
A swift-sailing schooner is the Wayland, and forty-one days later I am literally received with open arms and open-mouthed astonishment by those who had seen me set sail for San Francisco. My story makes me a nine days' hero, and a little later I have the pleasure of seeing in the paper the arrival of the ship Sandwich—Drew, master—at San Francisco, one hundred and twenty-three days from New York; "Harry Franks, ordinary seaman, lost on the passage."
I have no chance of personally contradicting this statement until, three years afterward, I ship as second mate on board the bark Doris, whose captain proves to be Mr. Thatcher K. Burns, formerly second officer of the Sandwich. He does not welcome me as one from the dead. Captain Burns has seen too many strange things in his sea-faring life to be surprised at anything. He looks sharply at me for a moment, as I rather effusively greet him.
"Ah, yes," he says, in his sharp, business-like way; "thought I'd seen you somewhere, Mr.—er—Franks. Picked up, were you? So was I. Hadn't swum twenty strokes before the Sandwich's boat reached me, and a sweet job we had getting back to the ship. Well, get the decks cleared up as soon as possible. I want to get away on morning tide. Some of the men will be down directly," and with a nod Captain Burns hurries off to the Custom-house for his clearance papers.
And this is what the blotted entry in my old pocket diary refers to.
To tell a boy that it is great sport to fly kites is to tell him something he already knows very well. He understands perfectly what these winds that blow in the early part of spring were intended for.
To make a kite of the ordinary pattern, one needs only a lath, a piece of flat, pliable wood, and plenty of string, paper, and paste.
The lath is for the upright, B and D in the illustration, and the thin piece of wood, which should be three-fourths of the length of the lath, and half an inch wide, must be securely fastened by its exact middle to the upper end of the lath, as at E, and brought down to a bow by the cord at C. This cord should be passed with a double turn round the upright at F, to keep it from slipping, and care must be taken to balance the two sides of the kite most accurately, to prevent the kite from being lopsided. Now carry a string, as in the figure, from E to C, thence to G, to A, and back to E, fastening it securely at each point. Next paste sheets of paper together until you have one large enough to cover the whole framework, with a margin of at least two inches to lap over. Lay the skeleton upon this, cut away the superfluous paper all round, then lap the margin over the edges, and paste it firmly down. Having firmly secured this, cut some slips of paper about three inches wide, and paste them along and over the cross strings so as to secure them firmly to the main sheet, and treat the upright in the same manner, though, of course, with a wider strip.
For the wings or tassels to be attached at the points A and C, take two strips of paper of a length and width proportioned to the size of the tassel required, snip these across like a comb, roll them up, and bind the uncut ends tightly with a string; the tassel for the tail is to be made in the same manner. The ordinary way of making the tail is by fastening slips of paper at intervals of about six inches along a piece of string. Now these bits of paper serve no purpose whatever save to become entangled with each other. A good long piece of string with a tassel at the end answers all purposes, and is much more graceful! The tail should be from fifteen to twenty times as long as the kite.
In selecting the string for the kite, get it as light and strong as possible; if it is too heavy, the kite will not be able to carry so much weight very high, and if it is not strong, the kite will very likely break away. The string is not fastened directly to the kite, but to another string, which, doubled, is attached to the upright in the following way: If the kite be four feet long, one end of this band is fastened about ten inches from the top, and the other about twenty inches from the bottom, and should be slack enough to hang in a loop about twelve or eighteen inches in length. As to where the string should be fastened to the band, that can only be told by experimenting until one finds out at just what point the kite will balance.
To start the kite in the first instance it is almost absolutely necessary to have some aid, two persons being required, one to hold the kite up and help it off, while the other, holding the string, runs a short distance against the wind to increase its pressure upon the kite, and thus help it to get its tail fairly off the ground, after which the kite will do very well by itself.
Arthur and Elsie every day
Learned their geography,
And after lessons loved to play
At sending ships to sea.
They used, instead of little boats,
A thing that does as well,
A vessel that securely floats—
An empty walnut shell.
No wonder that this little pair
Would oft indulge the notion
That walnut shells real vessels were,
And washing-tubs the ocean.
And often when they were in bed
Their brains began to teem,
Until upon this wondrous voyage
They started in a dream.
For mast and sail to stand the gale
They chose a pretty feather;
The walnut shell rode monstrous well
Through very boisterous weather.
They had no meat or bread to eat,
And not a drop of tea;
They thought fried fish to meet their wish
Would follow in their lee.
Their ship flew fast before the blast;
They reached the arctic snow.
"Hurrah for ice!"
They cried; "it's nice,
Although the north wind blows.
For here a seal
Provides a meal,
Our coats, our hats, our hose."
At last they thought they might arrange
A very comfortable change.
"Hurrah!" cried Arthur; "off we go;
We'll run down to the Hoang-Ho."
And on they went where might be seen
All sorts of tea, both black and green,
And figures like a Chinese screen,
Pagodas, chopsticks, tails,
Umbrellas, junks, and tiny shoes,
And they were carried on bamboos,
By men whose shoulders feel no bruise,
Across the hills and dales.
One day a condor seized the shell,
The little travellers as well,
And flew with speed terrific
Toward an island in the sea,
Which Arthur said was sure to be
(I said they knew geography)
Somewhere in the Pacific.
A cheap excursion, was it not,
To such a very charming spot
That seemed quite free from dangers?
For there they lived a life of ease,
Whilst apes politely climbed the trees
For nuts to give the strangers.
Then sailing on some thousand miles,
Where spices scent the breeze,
They passed among the coral isles
That crowd the Southern seas.
They cross the calm of tropic heat,
In solitude the most complete,
Where the mirage in strange surprise
Makes Elsie open wondering eyes.
And now they stand on India's strand,
This young and dauntless pair,
To beard the leopard, as they thought,
And tiger in his lair.
For Elsie said, "No beast can face
An opened parasol,
And Arthur in the surest place
Can make a bullet-hole."
But soon the children thought it best
To put to sea once more;
And Elsie steered still further west,
As she had steered before,
While Arthur opened out his chest
By tugging at the oar.
A sudden wind arose at last;
The walnut shell before the blast
Across the tropics flew;
But Arthur, till the simoom passed
(That wind of course he knew)
And daring Elsie held on fast,
When safe on Afric's coast were cast
The walnut shell and crew.
And when the little folks were bent
To cross the black man's continent,
"The ostriches shall find us legs,"
Cried Arthur; "they can run."
Said Elsie, "Yes; and lay us eggs;
I'll fry them in the sun."
They travelled through the desert land,
And yet were brisk and merry,
Though Arthur's eyes were full of sand,
And Elsie's little face was tanned
As brown as autumn berry.
From crocodiles which had not dined
Bold Arthur never shrinks,
While Elsie tries to call to mind
Some riddles for the Sphinx.
And journeying onward safe and sound
With never pause nor hitch,
Their way through the Canal they found,
With wonderment so rich.
They saw big vessels outward-bound
(That only sometimes ran aground)
Go steaming through the ditch.
Through foam and rapids safe they came.
And thought a whirlpool very tame.
Yet Arthur's strength was still the same,
And Elsie's face was all aflame
At ventures so romantic;
And Arthur never ceased to row
Till turtles took the shell in tow
Across the broad Atlantic.
At home once more; and all the town
Talks of the walnut shell's renown.
Arthur is pensioned by the crown,
And all his travels written down,
Their wonder and variety.
And little Elsie, too, is proud;
Her pluck and knowledge are allowed
By very wise society.
AN EASTER CAROL.
We are sure our young friends will feel satisfied with this beautiful Easter number, so crowded with good things. Do not let the rest of the paper make anybody forgetful of Our Post-office Box. You seldom see a more entertaining letter than this from our correspondent Georgie:
Galeyville, Arizona Territory.
This mining camp is ten miles from the New Mexico line, and forty from Mexico. There are mountains all about, covered to the tops with luxuriant grass, and juniper, pine, fir, cedar, and live-oak trees. In the cañons, near the creeks, are sycamore, black-walnut, white oak, madrone, and other varieties; also the lovely manganita, and other shrubs. Many fruits and flowers are native here. Of the former there are cherries, grapes, raspberries, strawberries, etc.; among the latter, the geranium, morning-glory (all colors), poppy, portulaca, and many more favorites that we used to cultivate in the East. Potatoes also grow wild, and though very small, are good; they are called "spuds" here.
Last summer we were encamped for two months in a cañon, six miles from town, where are ever so many caves. We all went part of the way through the largest—Coral Cave—one day. The entrance is on the mountain-side, and so small that one person has to crawl or "back" down at a time, looking out for bruises from projecting rocks, and also he must have a care for his footing, for this passage is very steep and winding; all at once it grows broad, and very high. At this point all light their candles, as there are other passages branching from the main one; and that we may not get lost, we watch for the little "monuments" which have been built to guide visitors to the main cavern.
It is a hard scramble of about 500 feet, past awful chasms, down dizzy natural stairways, etc., then up a few steps, and—oh, it is just like fairy-land, I am sure! The frost-like drapery and festoons, sparkling and flashing at every movement of our lights, the thousands of icicles and straight white columns, under our feet the "snow," twinkling with innumerable diamonds, made me think we were in Jack Frost's home beyond a doubt. But it was not snow nor ice at all, but limestone formation; it was stalagmite on the floors of all the chambers, and the crystals cut our boots dreadfully.
As an offset to the pleasures of our happy camping ground in the cañon, with its grand scenery, its woods, flowers, towering rocks, rushing mountain stream, and springs of clear cold water, we had scorpions, tarantulas, rattlesnakes, and loathsome centipeds. There is also a very poisonous bug, called by a Spanish name which I have forgotten; it means "babe of the wood." It is about two inches long, of a rusty black color, and has claws something like a lobster, as has the centiped, which is of a greenish color when young, turning to yellow-brown when full grown. They (the centipeds) are in sections or joints, each joint having one pair of legs, which end in needlepoints, jet black, and charged with poison. We killed lots. Many were ten inches in length; they can run very fast. We never saw any of these creatures in our sleeping-apartment; but about the rocks, in the small cave where we cooked and took our meals, they, with lizards, chameleons, and cunning little striped squirrels, were as much at home as we. Out in the woods were wild animals to keep away from. Papa shot a big brown bear one day, and a miner killed a very large panther. It is a grand place to hunt in, as game is plentiful. We are interested in "The Talking Leaves," here in the Apache country. I wish there were no Apaches in the world! Sometimes the soldiers come through here, and prospectors see squads of Indians in the mountains, and we get scared. Last September papa sent mamma, brother, and me to California to stay until the fright was over. We spent three months at a bathing-place on the Pacific coast called Santa Monica, and had fine times bathing, fishing, and playing on the beach. My mamma gives us a "treat" Saturday afternoons by reading to us from back numbers of Young People. All the children in camp who are old enough to be interested are asked to come at three o'clock every Saturday. We are now half through with "Toby Tyler." It is as good as ever, and the boys all think it and Young People splendid.
Georgie B. C.
We shall think of the group gathered to listen to mamma as she reads their favorite stories aloud on Saturday afternoons, and whenever there shall happen to be anything in the paper which we enjoy very much, we will say to ourselves, "Now, Georgie and his friends will be sure to like this too." The Postmistress says she never could summon up courage enough to scramble into Coral Cave; and as for the centipeds, she threw both hands out in the most horrified manner when she came to that part of the letter which mentioned them.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy seven years old. My mamma gave me Harper's Young People for my birthday present in December. I can not read yet, but mamma reads the whole paper to me, except "Talking Leaves"—we have not the first chapters of that. I hope I soon will be able to read; I am learning to spell now.
I have a little sister named Bertie, and a cat named Topsy. My sister is three years old. She talks all the time. Mamma kept her out of the room when I was sick.
I am always glad when Tuesday comes. I wish we could have a Harper's every day.
Mamma is writing this for me. When I learn to write, I will write again.
Eddie H. B.
P.S.—I almost forgot. Won't you please tell me what C. Y. P. R. U. means?
Chautauqua Young People's Reading Union.
Wa Kerney, Kansas.
I think that "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker" was very nice; but little brother Roy likes to hear "Talking Leaves" first. I want to tell you about my pets. I have two dolls. My china doll was nine years old last Christmas; her name is Frankie. And then I have a wax doll, and her name is Lulu. She has real hair, and bright blue eyes. On her third birthday her grandma (that's my mamma) gave her a real cute little watch and chain. I have two birds. The canary's name is Major, and he is quite a little actor. George is my linnet, and is a very fine singer. I have a nice little kitty, and her name is Dot. I think if Miss Augusta C. could only see her, she would say that she was very nice. I have a picture of the Princess of Wales holding a large snow-white kitten in her arms. My little brother has a white dog; his name is Prince. He has many cunning tricks. We have taught him to chase the hawks, so they will not catch our chickens. I want to tell you how we amuse ourselves some of the time in winter. My papa bought us a box of paints, and we get two of the florist's catalogues and paint the flowers. I send you one or two that I have painted; don't you think they are nice? I am a little girl eleven years old. I have not any sisters, and only one little brother, seven years old.
Jennie May M.
Yes, Jennie, the flowers you sent were very nicely colored indeed, and your picture of your home and pets is very charmingly painted too.
Weldon, North Carolina.
We have three nice cats; their names are Judy, Jonah, and Salamander. When we were real little boys we used to run under the bed and hide when we heard papa coming in from the store. He would pretend to be surprised, and say, "Why, where are my boys?" and then Judy would run to the bed and look under at us, and then at papa, as if to say, "Here they are." Then he would pull us out, and what a frolic we would have climbing up into his arms! And Judy seemed just as happy as we were. Jonah is very large—weighs fifteen pounds. Salamander is our baby cat. She climbs up to mother's bedroom window every morning, and when she comes in she goes to mother first, and then to our room, and purrs and rubs around us, and puts up her little mouth to kiss just as sweet as anything. We are always glad when Wednesday comes, for then we get Harper's Young People. We like Jimmy Brown's stories ever so much, and think he must be related to Georgie Hacket, the bad boy, whose Diary we have read.
John and Bernard S.
Oswego, Oregon.
I have not taken Young People very long, but I like it very much. I have a nice horse and saddle that my grandmother gave me for my birthday present when I was eight years old. My horse is as white as snow, and his name is Mazeppa. I take a ride almost every day. My cousins Edgar and Frank have a horse, and we ride out very often together, and have nice times.
Last summer I tamed two wild robins; they were very interesting pets. They were fledglings when I took them from the nest. I had to feed them by hand for four or five weeks. I did not keep them in a cage in the daytime, but let them have their liberty in the yard. I clipped their wings so that they could not fly away. When they were hungry they would come to the house and cry, "Tiptop, Tiptop." I named them Tiptop and Rob, and whenever I wanted to feed them, or know where they were, I would call them by their names, and they would always answer, and come to me. Then I would put out my hand, and they would hop upon it, and let me carry them about in that way. I would place a basin of water in the shade of a cherry-tree for them to bathe in, and it was fun to see them bathe. We had several cats, but they did not molest them. When the robins were about two months old, Tiptop got into the well and was drowned. As Rob grew older, and could find his own food, he would stay out all day, but would come home at night,[Pg 383] and if the doors were open, he would fly straight to the room where his cage was. But one evening he did not return, and I could neither see nor hear him anywhere. Oh, how sorry I felt! I think that a strange cat caught him, for one came to the house the next morning!
I am afraid you will think that my letter is very long, but I must tell you about the pretty little cherry-birds that we have here. We call them cherry-birds because they are so fond of cherries. They are about the size of a canary. There are several kinds of them, and some are prettier than any canary-bird I ever saw, and some sing very sweetly. They come in large flocks in summer.
I am eleven and a half years old, and have never been a day at school. I live on Tualamette Island. We call our place Irona Hill. We can see three snow-covered mountains the year round from our door—Mount Hood, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Adams. They are a beautiful sight on a clear day.
Elva D.
You showed great patience in training your pretty pet robins, and it seems a great pity that one should have been drowned, and the other devoured by a cat. But it may be that Rob at last grew tired of his cage, and found a little mate, and helped her build a pretty nest in some greenwood tree. At least we will try to think so, as it is pleasanter than to suppose that he was eaten by Puss. You write very well indeed for a little girl who has never been at school. Does your mother teach you herself?
Stuttgart, Germany.
I have never yet seen a letter from Stuttgart in the Post-office Box, so I thought I might write and tell how much a little German girl enjoys Young People. My papa is a German officer, but my mamma is an American; so I can speak and read English as well as German, though I can not write it as well. My grandmamma has taken your paper for me ever since I could read English. I do not go to school, but have private lessons at home. I learn German, French, English, and music. I have a dear little sister, whose name is Roberta. She is two years old, and can speak English, French, and a little German. I have a canary-bird and two dogs. I have one very pretty dolly, whose name is Lili. There was a good deal of skating this winter. I skated every day. I like very much to read the Post-office Box, and hope my letter is not too long to be printed. I send you one dollar for Young People's Cot. I am in my tenth year.
Carla E. D.
The dollar was forwarded to Miss Fanshawe, treasurer of the fund for Young People's Cot. We like to receive letters from our distant readers as well as from those whose homes are in America. Carla's letter was very beautifully written, and we shall be glad to hear from her again.
Greenleaf, Kentucky.
We are three brothers, all under nine years of age. Greenleaf is the name of our home down in Southern Kentucky—a long way from where dear Young People is published. We have a very lovely country home, six acres in our front yard, with great oak-trees, in which the little squirrels play as though they were tame. A little girl was here, and saw them running about the yard, and up the trees, and said, "Look at the pretty kittens up in the trees!" I wish Birdie and Jennie could see our half-wild, half-tame squirrels. We throw bread-crumbs under the cedars in the winter, and the partridges get them. We never disturb them. They live in our orchard that joins the yard. We watch them running through the yard. The mocking-birds and thrushes build in the honeysuckles and cedars. They have not left us this winter.
Last Saturday we went fishing, and caught twenty fish by ourselves in a large pond. We wish so much that Horace P. F. could have some of our fun.
Edward W., Phillip W., and
Frederick W., by Mother W.
The picture of your home which we have in our mind is charming. We are glad you are so good to the little friends who live in your trees, frolicking in the branches, or giving you sweet concerts mornings and evenings. The three boys may give mother a kiss and a hug for sending us so pleasant a letter.
Worcester, Massachusetts.
I read Young People carefully every week. My teachers at school and also my Sunday-school teachers think it just the best paper ever published for children. Seven other little girls about my age are going to take it, and we all live in West Street. Worcester is a busy city. We have lots of factories and machine shops. We also have good schools, and pretty streets, and a large number of fine residences. Almost everybody is prosperous here, at least I think so, because everybody has plenty to do, and no one needs be idle. There is work for all who wish to work. We are going to have a fair at our church to assist the people in the Southwest who have suffered by the terrible floods, and I hope it will be successful.
The letters from the children which you are so kind as to publish always please me very much. There was one from Florida, not long ago, which was very interesting, and I hope there will be another one from the same writer. There was a nice letter from Cohasset, Massachusetts, about three months since, signed "Harry," which told your readers about Minot's Ledge Light-house and the ocean, which all my friends thought very nice and pleasant. My friends who read that letter about the beach, and the bathing, and the ships, and other things which Harry told us about, hope he will send another letter.
Mary S. A.
Fred L. C.—Send your wiggles, exchanges, answers to puzzles, etc., to the Editor of Harper's Young People, Franklin Square, New York.
Willie A.—We can not insert an exchange in the number succeeding the week in which we receive it. It is placed on file for publication, and follows others which have been received before it. As the number sent us is very large, you must try to be patient until your turn comes.
Young Pedestrian.—Your Picnic Club is a capital idea. Of course the excursions will be principally on foot, although, as New York is such a large city, you will often want to travel out of it either by rail or boat. The elevated railroad will take you as far as the Harlem River, and there you can change cars and go by the New York City and Northern as far as Tarrytown. A pleasant excursion, and an easy one, is by train to One-hundred-and-fifty-fifth Street and Eighth Avenue, thence on foot to High Bridge, and thence to King's Bridge, about two and a half miles further on, returning by Washington Heights, which overhang the Hudson, and afford magnificent views. The road running along by the private houses is not private. At Fort Washington you will be almost opposite Fort Lee, which is on the Jersey shore, and which is reached by boat from foot of Canal Street. The country all along and back from the river is delightful, and the woods are rich in ferns and wild flowers. A little higher up the river the Palisades begin, and their steep sides need some climbing. Only pathways, however, should be attempted, as all the members of the club may not be expert mountaineers.
A delightful mountain and woodland walk for a long day is from Montclair, New Jersey, along the Orange Mountain to South Orange, or beyond, as far as Millburn. From Eagle Rock, which overhangs Orange and Montclair, you will have a magnificent view in almost every direction. By following the ridge of the mountain you will come to South Orange, whence you can take train to New York. Millburn is three miles beyond. When walking through wooded country it is well for the party to keep together; otherwise some may lose their way, and cause delay and anxiety to the rest. Railroad fares for this trip will be about seventy cents each. Staten Island and Long Island (with Bay Ridge and Bath to the south, and Whitestone, Garden City, and Roslyn to the east) are within easy reach.
It will be best to make the nearest excursions first, as on every trip you will gain experience in travelling, and so be enabled to save time and expense. Before starting study out the proposed trip with the aid of a map and a railway guide, and if you are going to take the train back at the same place where you leave it, be sure to buy excursion tickets. The more you know about the place you are visiting, the more you will enjoy it. If, therefore, you can consult a guide to the suburbs of New York, and "post" yourselves thereby, you will not be likely to overlook any object of interest. If the walking and the scenery are your only objects, and not flower-collecting, etc., it will not do for you to miss whatever there is to be seen.
Be sure that your shoes are stout and yet comfortable, and your clothes warm enough—at least in this spring weather; in midsummer you need have no fear about "the cool of the evening." A good lunch is important, and this you should take with you, as suburban hotels are either very poor, or, if good, very expensive; and then walking is hungry work, and not pleasant work on a very empty stomach. As regards a name for your club, some of you or your friends ought to be able to think of a good one, and if you have a badge, it might represent the name. Such names as the "Grasshoppers," "Butterflies," "Woodchucks," etc., would do. Whatever your name, and wherever you go, the Postmistress envies you the good times you will have.
We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the article entitled "Easter in Jerusalem." Of all the joyous weeks of the year this should be the brightest and most radiant. Two days ago we celebrated an event more important than that which gives us the happiness of Christmas. The Christ-child, who came to us then all lovely in his helpless infancy, comes now from his open grave with his work accomplished. Death has been conquered; the promise is fulfilled; He is the Saviour of the World. While you are spending the bright hours of Easter-week in gladness and rejoicing, you will like to read how the same great festival is being celebrated by the little folks whose home is in the Holy City where our Lord himself once dwelt. From this article we would like to have you turn to Mrs. Sangster's sketch of "The Cobbler who kept School in a Workshop," learning from it, if you will, the sweet and noble lesson that such a life ought to teach each one of us. Then, boys and girls, for an imaginary ride on "Jumbo," and the biggest kind of a kite! The boys must whittle the sticks, while the girls mix paste and tie on tail. Then no quarrelling as to who shall hold the string when she's well up!
Across.—1. Way of life. 2. Kingly. 3. Pickled meat. 4. A city in Asia. 5. A station.
Down.—1. A letter. 2. A conjunction. 3. A boy's name. 4. A Hindoo servant. 5. Fastened. 6. Learning. 7. A siesta. 8. A preposition. 9. A letter.
Lodestar.
1.—1. An opaque body. 2. An adjective. 3. A musical term. 4. A verb. 5. Musical instruments.
2.—1. To change. 2. To depart. 3. To be received. 4. An episode. 5. Schisms.
G. Q. C.
1. Exaggerated pictures. 2. A musical term. 3. Part of a door. 4. Hot. 5. A range of mountains. 6. Anger. 7. Opposite of distant. Primals—A commander. Finals—One who obeys orders.
E. D. H.
Centrals—A small flag. Across—1. Musicians. 2. Wide awake. 3. An insect. 4. In nest. 5. A human being. 6. A seat. 7. A floor covering.
E. D. H.
| C | ||||||
| T | I | M | ||||
| T | A | M | E | S | ||
| C | I | M | E | T | E | R |
| M | E | T | T | A | ||
| S | E | A | ||||
| R |
| P | O | E | F | I | R | L | A | W | ||||
| O | R | E | I | R | E | A | G | E | ||||
| E | E | L | R | E | D | W | E | D |
Anger begins with folly, and ends with repentance.
Natatores. Pelican. Whippoorwill. Rhinoceros. Giraffe. Hedgehog. Panther. Radiates. Lobster. Honey-bee. Antennæ.
| D | E | F | E | A | T |
| E | D | I | L | E | |
| F | I | L | M | ||
| E | L | M | |||
| A | E | ||||
| T |
| C | R | A | M | P |
| R | A | T | I | O |
| A | T | O | N | E |
| M | I | N | I | M |
| P | O | E | M | S |
Answer to Enigma on page 352—A flag.
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from M. F. S., Wroton Kenney, Willie T. Blew, "Olivette," R. Lloyd, Nellie B. Hannah, Lulu, Kirtland, John S. Price, "Lodestar," Harry D. Loehman, G. Q. C., Palmer Harrison, Harold S. Chambers, "Icicle," Jesse S. Godine, "Don Quixote," Eva Dayton, Fannie Darling, Elma Stoddard, Harry Draper.
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
Am I a little snow-white lamb,
A robin, or a bluebird,
A cherry, peach, or strawberry?—
Pray tell me, folks, have you heard?
They call me every sort of thing;
Now is it not a pity?—
Am I a flower, am I a star,
Or just a little kitty?
I thought I'd learned, the other day,
When brought by sister Carry
Down stairs into the sitting-room
To "smile for Uncle Harry."
I heard him, as they took me in,
Say, "Pshaw! she's not worth two cents."
And then, "Come, Carry, bring her here;
Let's see the little nuisance."
But all my aunts, and grandmamma,
They told him he was "horrid";
Then kissed my nose, my eyes, and toes,
My hands, my cheeks, my forehead.
Oh dear! I don't know what I am
I feel so puzzled. Maybe
I'd best believe what mamma says—
I'm just her "precious baby."
Silent stories are acted in costume, but without words. They should always give the impression of moving tableaux vivants, if the story and the dresses are rather pretty; or they may burlesque—that is, make as comic as possible—a historical story. In either case the subject should be something well known, so that it may be guessed as the play proceeds.
A part of the room should be divided off as a stage—perhaps by laying a thick heap or wreath of evergreens along the floor, and stretching a wreath above across the ceiling, while others are hung down close to each side, so as to form a frame. Dark-colored curtains should be hung across at the back of the stage; and as scenery could not be changed for five or six different stories played quickly after each other, the best way would be to hang out over the curtains, or show at each change of scene, the name of the next scene printed in large letters on card-board, such as "A Wood," "Interior of a Cottage," "A Garden," "A Cellar," or whatever it may be. This was the old way in England before there was painted scenery; and people were content with it even in Shakspeare's time.
Here are a few examples of Silent Stories, only adding the hint that the acting should always go on quickly, the players moving their lips and expressing all they can by their faces and gestures.
"Little Silver Hair and the Three Bears." Scene I., a wood with a cottage in sight. The cottage door is shown half open, at the side of the stage, and there are evergreen bushes. Enter a fair-haired little girl fancifully dressed. She pries about, peeps in at the door, and at last goes in. Scene II., interior of the cottage. Kitchen table and chairs; big chair, common-sized chair, and small baby's chair; in front of the chairs a big bowl, a middle-sized bowl, and a little bowl, all steaming on the table. In one corner the staircase appearing—that is, the lowest three steps of a step-ladder, with stair-carpet fastened on them, and a railing (easily made of laths) down one side. The little girl sits on the chairs, tastes the porridge, then goes cautiously up stairs. A table is placed at the side of the stage, out of sight behind the ladder, for the players to go and come by the steps. Enter from the other side three bears, the big bear, the little bear, and the wee bear (girls or boys wrapped in furs, creeping on hands and knees, the heads being represented in strong brown paper emerging from the fur), with parted jaws—a little management produces a wonderful bear; and the silence might be broken here with growling. They find the chairs moved and the porridge tasted, and go growling up the stairs out of sight. Then enter again the little girl, running frightened down the staircase, with her hat hanging off, and her hand stretched out before her; she crosses the stage, and runs out at the other side.—Curtain falls.
"Beauty and the Beast" makes another good story for acting rapidly in this way. It is very effective with a prettily dressed Beauty, a garden of paper roses, a terrible Beast, of the bear kind, muffled in fur cloak—or, better still, tiger-skin or goat-skin hearth-rug—and a quick change in throwing off the Bear disguise, and discovering the Prince.
The stories should of course be prepared beforehand, and the necessary articles placed ready behind the curtains.
BRINGING HOME THE EASTER EGG.BRINGING HOME THE EASTER EGG.BRINGING HOME THE EASTER EGG.
[1] Begun in No. 127, Harper's Young People.
[2] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.
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